Another Country

by James Baldwin

  “What are you crying about?”

  “What?” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Nothing.” He walked over to the bar and leaned on it. Some deep and curious cunning made him add, “You talk as though you didn’t want us to be friends any more.”

  “Oh, crap. Is that what you think? Of course were friends, we’ll be friends till we die.” He walked to the bar and put his hand on Vivaldo’s shoulder, leaning down to look into his face. “Honest. Okay?”

  They shook hands. “Okay. Don’t bug me any more.”

  Richard laughed. “I won’t bug you any more, you stupid bastard.”

  Ida came to the doorway. “Lunch is on the table. Come on, now, hurry, before it gets cold.”

  They were all a little drunk by the time lunch was over, having drunk with it two bottles of champagne; and eventually they sat in the living room again as the sun began to grow fiery, preparing to go down. Paul arrived, dirty, breathless, and cheerful. His mother sent him into the bathroom to wash and change his clothes. Richard remembered the ice that had to be bought for the party and the ginger ale that he had promised Michael, and he went downstairs to buy them. Cass decided that she had better change her clothes and put up her hair.

  Ida and Vivaldo had the living room to themselves for a short time. Ida put on an old Billie Holiday record and she and Vivaldo danced.

  There was a hammer knocking in his throat as she stepped into his arms with a friendly smile, one hand in his hand, one hand resting lightly on his arm. He held her lightly at the waist. His fingers, at her waist, seemed to have become abnormally and dangerously sensitive, and he prayed that his face did not show the enormous, illicit pleasure which entered him through his fingertips. He seemed to feel, beneath the heavy fabric of the suit she wore, the texture of the cloth of her blouse, the delicate obstruction which was the fastening of her skirt, the slick material of her slip which seemed to purr and crackle under his fingers, against her smooth, warm skin. She seemed to be unaware of the liberties being taken by his stiff, unmoving fingers. She moved with him, both guiding and being guided by him, effortlessly keeping her feet out of the path of his great shoes. Their bodies barely touched but her hair tickled his chin and gave off a sweet, dry odor and suggested, as did everything about this girl, a deep, slow-burning, carnal heat. He wanted to hold her closer to him. Perhaps, now, at this very moment, as she looked up at him, smiling, he would lower his head and wipe that smile from her face, placing his unsmiling mouth on hers.

  “Your hands are cold,” he said, for the hand which held his was very dry, and the fingertips were cool.

  “That’s supposed to mean that I’ve got a warm heart,” said Ida, “but what it really means is poor circulation.”

  “I prefer,” he said, “to believe that you’ve got a warm heart.”

  “I was counting on that,” she said, with a laugh, “but when you get to know me better you’ll find out that I’m the one who’s right. I’m afraid,” she said, with a teasing, frowning smile, “that I’m usually right.” She added, “About me.”

  “I wish I knew you better,” he said.

  “So,” she said, with a short, light laugh, “do I!”

  Richard returned. Michael, grave and shy, came out of his exile and he and Paul were given ginger ales on the rocks. Cass appeared in a high-necked, old-fashioned, burgundy-colored dress, and with her hair up. Richard put on a sport shirt and a more respectable-looking sweater, and Ida vanished to put on her face. The people began to arrive.

  The first to arrive was Richard’s editor, Loring Montgomery, a chunky, spectacled, man, with smooth, graying hair, who was younger than he looked— nearly ten years younger, in fact, than Richard. He had a diffident manner and a nervous giggle. With him was Richard’s agent, a dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman, who wore much silver and a little gold, and whose name was Barbara Wales. She, too, had a giggle but it was not nervous, and a great deal of manner but it was not diffident. She apparently felt that her status as Richard’s agent created a bond of intimacy between herself and Cass; who, helplessly and miserably mesmerized, and handicapped by the volume of Miss Wales’ voice and the razorlike distinctness of her syllables, trotted obediently behind her into the bedroom where coats and hats were to be deposited and where the women could repair their makeup.

  “The bar is over here,” Richard called, “whatever you’re drinking, come and get it.”

  “I could stand another drink,” Vivaldo said. “I’ve been drinking all day and I can’t get drunk.”

  “Are you trying to?” asked Ida.

  He looked at her and smiled. “No,” he said, “no, I’m not trying to. But if I were, I couldn’t make it, not today.” They stood facing the window. “You’re going to have supper with me, aren’t you?”

  “You’re not hungry, already?”

  “No. But I’m going to be hungry around suppertime.”

  “Well,” she said, “ask me around suppertime.”

  “You’re not suddenly going to decide you have to go home, or anything? You’re not going to run out on me?”

  “No,” she said, “I’m going to stick with you until the bitter end. You’ve got to talk to that agent, you know.”

  “Do I have to?” He looked in the direction of the glittering Miss Wales.

  “Of course you do. I’m sure it’s one of the reasons Richard wanted you here this afternoon. And you have to talk to the editor, too.”

  “Why? I haven’t got anything to show him.”

  “Well, you will. I’m sure Richard arranged all this partly for you. Now, you’ve got to cooperate.”

  “And what are you going to be doing while I’m having all these conferences?”

  “I’ll talk to Cass. Nobody’s really interested in us; we don’t write.”

  He kissed her hair. “You are the cutest thing,” he said.

  The doorbell rang. This time it was Steve Ellis, who had come with his wife. Ellis was a short, square man with curly hair and a boyish face. The face was just beginning, as is the way with boyish faces, not so much to harden as to congeal. He had a reputation as the champion of doomed causes, reaction’s intrepid foe; and he walked into the drawing rooms of the world as though he expected to find the enemy ambushed there. His wife wore a mink coat and a flowered hat, seemed somewhat older than he, and was inclined to be talkative.

  “Great meeting you, Silenski,” he said. Though he was compelled to look up to Richard, he did so with his head at an odd and belligerent angle, as though he were looking up in order more clearly to sight down. The hand he extended to Richard with a bulletlike directness suggested also the arrogant limpness of hands which have the power to make or break: only custom prevented the hand from being kissed. “I’ve been hearing tremendous things about you. Maybe we can have a chat a little later.”

  And his smile was good-natured, open, and boyish. When he was introduced to Ida, he stood stock-still, throwing out his arms as though he were a little boy.

  “You’re an actress,” he said. “You’ve got to be an actress.”

  “No,” said Ida, “I’m not.”

  “But you must be. I’ve been looking for you for years. You’re sensational!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ellis,” she said, laughing, “but I am not an actress.” Her laugh was a little strained but Vivaldo could not know whether this was due to nerves or displeasure. People stood in smiling groups around them. Cass stood behind the bar, watching.

  Ellis smiled conspiratorially and pushed his head a little forward. “What do you do, then? Come on, tell me.”

  “Well, at the moment,” Ida said, rather pulling herself together, “I work as a waitress.”

  “A waitress. Well, my wife’s here, so I won’t ask you where you work.” He stepped a little closer to Ida. “But what do you think about while you walk around waiting on tables?” Ida hesitated, and he smiled again, coaxing and tender. “Come on. You can’t tell me that all you want is to get to be head waitress.”
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  Ida laughed. Her lips curved rather bitterly, and she said, “No.” She hesitated and looked toward Vivaldo, and Ellis followed her look. “I’ve sometimes thought of singing. That’s what I’d like to do.”

  “Aha!” he cried, triumphantly, “I knew I’d get it out of you.” He pulled a card out of his breast pocket. “When you get ready to make the break, and let it be soon, you come and see me. Don’t you forget.”

  “You won’t remember my name, Mr. Ellis.” She said it lightly and the look with which she measured Ellis gave Vivaldo no clue as to what was going on in her mind.

  “Your name,” he said, “is Ida Scott. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I never forget names or faces. Try me.”

  “That’s true,” said his wife, “he never forgets a name or a face. I don’t know how he does it.”

  “I,” said Vivaldo, “am not an actress.”

  Ellis looked startled, then he laughed. “You could have fooled me,” he said. He took Vivaldo by the elbow. “Come and have a drink with me. Please.”

  “I don’t know why I said that. I was half-kidding.”

  “But only half. What’s your name?”

  “Vivaldo. Vivaldo Moore.”

  “And you’re not an actress—?”

  “I’m a writer. Unpublished.”

  “Aha! You’re working on something?”

  “A novel.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “My novel’s about Brooklyn.”

  “The tree? Or the kids or the murderers or the junkies?”

  Vivaldo swallowed. “All of them.”

  “That’s quite an assignment. And if you don’t mind my saying so, it sounds just a little bit old-fashioned.” He put his hand before his mouth and burped. “Brooklyn’s been done. And done.”

  No it hasn’t, Vivaldo thought. “You mean,” he said, with a smile, “that it doesn’t have any TV possibilities?”

  “It might have, who knows?” He looked at Vivaldo with friendly interest. “You really have a sneer in your voice when you say TV, you know that? What are you so afraid of?” He tapped Vivaldo on the chest. “Art doesn’t exist in a vacuum; it isn’t just for you and your handful of friends. Christ, if you knew how sick I am of this sensitive-young-man horseshit!”

  “I’m sick of it, too,” said Vivaldo. “I don’t think of myself as a sensitive young man.”

  “No? You sound like one and you act like one. You look down your nose at everybody. Yes,” he insisted, for Vivaldo looked at him in some surprise, “you think that most people are shit and you’d rather die than get yourself dirtied up in any of the popular arts.” Then he gave Vivaldo a deliberate, insolent once-over. “And here you are, in your best suit, and I bet you live in some dingy, ice-water apartment and you can’t even take your girl out to a night club.” His voice dropped. “The colored girl, Miss Scott, you see I do remember names, she’s your girl, isn’t she? That’s why you got pissed off at me. Man, you’re too touchy.”

  “I thought you were too free.”

  “I bet you wouldn’t have felt that if she were a white girl.”

  “I’d have felt that about any girl who happened to be with me.”

  But he wondered if Ellis were right. And he realized that he would never know, there would never be any way for him to know. He felt that Ellis had treated Ida with a subtle lack of respect. But he had spoken to her in the only way he could, and it was the way he spoke to everyone. All of the people in Ellis’ world approached each other under cover of a manner designed to hide whatever they might really be feeling, about each other or about themselves. When confronted with Ida, who was so visibly rejected from the only world they knew, this manner was forced to become relatively personal, self-conscious, and tense. It became entangled with an effort to avoid being called into judgment; with a fear that their spiritual and social promissory notes might suddenly be called up. By being pressed into the service of an impulse that was real, the manner revealed itself as totally false and because it was false, it was sinister.

  Then, as Ellis poured himself another applejack and he poured himself another Scotch, he realized that the things which Ellis had, and the things which Richard was now going to have, were things that he wanted very much. Ellis could get anything he wanted by simply lifting up a phone; headwaiters were delighted to see him; his signature on a bill or a check was simply not to be questioned. If he needed a suit, he bought it; he was certainly never behind in his rent; if he decided to fly to Istanbul tomorrow, he had only to call his travel agent. He was famous, he was powerful, and he was not really much older than Vivaldo, and he worked very hard.

  Also, he could get the highest-grade stuff going; he had only to give the girl his card. And then Vivaldo realized why he hated him. He wondered what he would have to go through to achieve a comparable eminence. He wondered how much he was willing to give— to be powerful, to be adored, to be able to make it with any girl he wanted, to be sure of holding any girl he had. And he looked around for Ida. At the same time, it occurred to him that the question was not really what he was going to “get” but how he was to discover his possibilities and become reconciled to them.

  Richard, now, was talking, or, rather, listening to Mrs. Ellis; Ida was listening to Loring; Cass sat on the sofa, listening to Miss Wales. Paul stood near her, looking about the room; Cass held him absently and yet rather desperately by the elbow.

  “Anyway— I’d like to keep in touch with you, maybe you’ve got something.” And Ellis handed him his card. “Why don’t you give me a ring sometime? and I meant what I said to Miss Scott, too. I produce pretty good shows, you know.” He grinned and punched Vivaldo on the shoulder. “You won’t have to lower your artistic standards.”

  Vivaldo looked at the card, then looked at Ellis. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  Ellis smiled. “I like you,” he said. “I’m even willing to suggest an analyst for you. Let’s join the party.”

  He walked over to Richard and Mrs. Ellis. Vivaldo walked over to Ida.

  “I’ve been trying to find out about your novel,” Loring said, “but your young lady here is most cagey. She won’t give me a clue.”

  “I keep telling him that I don’t know anything about it,” Ida said, “but he won’t believe me.”

  “She doesn’t know much about it,” Vivaldo said. “I’m not sure I know an awful lot about it myself.” Abruptly, he felt himself beginning to tremble with weariness. He wanted to take Ida and go home. But she seemed pleased enough to stay; it was not really late; the last rays of the setting sun were fading beyond the river.

  “Well,” said Loring, “as soon as you do have something, I hope you’ll get in touch with me. Richard thinks you’re tremendously talented and I’d certainly trust his judgment.”

  He knew that Ida was puzzled and irritated by the mediocrity of his response. He tried to pump up enthusiasm, and watching Ida’s face helped. He could not imagine what she thought of Ellis, and rage at himself, his jealousy, his fear, and his confusion, contributed a saving intensity to his evasive reply. Loring seemed more certain than ever that he was a diamond in the rough, and Ida more certain than ever that he was in need of hands to push him.

  And he himself felt, in a way he had not felt before, that it was time for him to take the plunge. This was the water, the people in this room; it impressed him, certainly, as far from fine, but it was the only water there was.

  Miss Wales now looked over toward him, but he avoided her eyes, giving all of his attention to Ida.

  “Let’s go,” he said, in a low voice, “let’s get out of here. I’ve had it.”

  “You want to go now? You haven’t talked to Miss Wales.” But he watched her eyes flicker toward the bar, where Ellis stood. And there was something in her face which he could not read, something speculative and hard.

  “I don’t want to talk to Miss Wales.”

  “Why on earth not? You’re being silly
.”

  “Look,” he said, “is there someone here you want to talk to?” Oh, you idiot! he groaned to himself. But the words were said.

  She looked at him. “I don’t know what you mean. What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” he said, sullenly. “I’m just crazy. Don’t mind me.”

  “You were thinking something. What were you thinking?”

  “Nothing,” he said, “really nothing.” He smiled. “I don’t care. We can stay if you want to.”

  “I was only staying,” she said, “on account of you.”

  He was about to say, Well then, we can go, but decided that it would be smarter not to. The doorbell rang. He said, “I just wanted to avoid getting involved in a supper deal with any of these people, that’s all.”

  “But who,” she persisted, “did you think I wanted to talk to?”

  “Oh,” he said, “I thought if you were really serious about that singing business, you might have wanted to make an appointment with Ellis. I imagine he could be helpful.”

  She looked at him wearily, with mockery and pity. “Oh, Vivaldo,” she said, “what a busy little mind you’ve got.” Then her manner changed, and she said, very coldly, “You don’t really have the right, you know, to worry about who I talk to. And what you’re suggesting doesn’t flatter me at all.” She kept her voice low, but it had begun to shake. “Maybe, now, I’ll behave like what you think I am!” She walked over to the bar and stepped between Richard and Ellis. She was smiling. Ellis put one hand on her elbow and his face changed as he spoke to her, becoming greedier and more vulnerable. Richard went behind the bar to pour Ida a drink.

  Vivaldo could have joined them, but he did not dare. Her outburst had come so mysteriously, and with such speed, that he was afraid to think of what might happen if he walked over to the bar. And she was right; he was wrong. Who she talked to was none of his business.